


Two and a Half Feet

by Caddaren



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Almost like ficlets?, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Oblivious Derek, Oblivious Stiles, Pack Bonding, Rebuilding the Hale House, Slow Build?, Snippets, Stiles is in denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caddaren/pseuds/Caddaren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has determined the most vile distance between two people in any kind of situation is approximately two and a half feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two and a Half Feet

Two and a half feet. Just enough room to speak, but not close enough to touch. Just out of arm’s reach, after all, just a graze of fingertips over hardened, smooth leather. To know you are heard, but not if any one is actually listening. Close enough to stand in the same bit of space, but not actually share that space.

Two and a half feet is basically the distance over a kitchen counter just like the island in Derek’s apartment. He taps the toes of his sneakers on the bar of his stool, impatient as ever, as he waits for Derek to wake up fully. Drowsy eyes met his over the rim of a coffee cup and Stiles can only sigh, waiting for the werewolf to actually register his presence and respond to his one sided conversation with more than a thick grunt.

Two and a half feet.

* * *

 “Seriously, Derek, you need to stock up your fridge, there’s no food in here!” Stiles cries, still rummaging when he senses Derek make his way into the kitchen.

“Essentials first, food later,” comes the reply, right as power tools are placed on the countertop. Stiles huffs.

Two and a half feet is about as long as a refrigerator door, if you have the old-fashioned, bulky kind like Derek does. Stiles sasses him for it whenever he has to heave the creaky door open. “Food is essentiaaaaaaal!”

Stiles rears back to see Derek frowning down at the mess he has to place in his car to get it to the Preserve. He closes the fridge and pulls his own keys out of his pocket. “We’ll take the Jeep.”

* * *

 Two and a half feet is like the distance across the front seat of a car. Stiles likes to avoid those if he can, especially cars with other people in them. Too little room to move, too little space to breathe. Stiles closes his eyes to the wind roaring in through the windows of Derek’s camaro, ignoring everything else.

At least with the windows down, the sweat would dry off his face and the back of his neck. “This is not how I planned on spending my summer, dude,” he says, but there is barely any hat behind it. It’s too hot out for more heat.

“Believe me, running errands for teenagers wasn’t on to-do list either.”

“Liar, broody werewolves don’t have to-do lists, just like they don’t have groceries lists. Too mundane.”

Derek rolls his eyes, pulling up in front of the convenience store. He gets out before Stiles can, and Stiles is painfully aware of the sudden emptiness of the small car.

Emptiness sucks more than summer mosquitoes.

* * *

 “My good god, why I am doing this?!” Stiles yells, his voice echoing in the half finished Hale house.

“No need to yell,” Scott says, coming up behind him with a bottle of water in one hand and a clean rag in the other. Stiles takes both.

“I will frickin yell if I feel like,” Stiles grumbles, downing the bottle in giant gulps and letting the rag rest across the back of his neck.

“It’s cool you’re here to help, but you know you don’t have to.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and regards the ragged floorboards beneath him. He scoffs, “please, like you and Derek would have a clue what goes where when it comes to putting a house back together.”

“Isaac will be back by the end of the week,” Scott promises, grinning in his usual crooked way.

“Well thank god!” Stiles climbs to his feet and finally notices Derek standing in the doorway. “You better be glad you’re paying me better than the ice queen parlor would. At least they have air-conditioning.”

Derek rolls his eyes and disappears for the rest of the day.

Two and a half feet is roughly the width of a door, isn’t it? It must be.

* * *

 “GAH, OH MY GOD, NO, no, dude no, privacy and boundaries, we’ve discussed these things, seriously, get out- and of course you’re coming in anyways. What the hell do you want?”

Two and a half feet is the distance between the pillows of Stiles’ bed and the sill of his window. He glowers over that distance, exasperated. “You could have just texted me.”

“Your phone was off.”

“Yeah, well, this is not the solution to that problem.”

“It’s one of them.”

“No, it’s really not. If my dad sees you climbing in and out of windows, he’ll reassess that whole “not-actually-a-murderer” part of your dazzling personality.”

“You’re dad won’t see me,” Derek says, and Stiles sighs and pulls on a t-shirt, choosing to ignore the fact his legs were bare except for boxers.

“What is it this time?” Stiles asks, sitting down at his desk and slouching over his computer.

“Gnomes.”

“Are you frickin seri-”

“Stiles.”

“Right, fine.”

* * *

 “Werewolves can’t get drunk?” Consequently, two and a half feet is the distance between the counter and the lock on Derek’s liquor cabinet.

A shake of the head.

“That must suck.”

A shrug of the shoulders.

“Seriously, you’re old enough to drink, but there’s no point to it?”

“I like the taste of whiskey,” Derek supplies, as if that might make sense.

He hates it, and debates on if he can pick the lock properly before catching Derek’s attention.

Stiles only frowns. “Will you let me drink?”

“I’m not supplying a minor.”

“Oh come on.”

“You’re the Sheriff’s son.”

“Exactly why he won’t suspect anything!”

“No, Stiles.”

Probably not. 

* * *

 “No, no, the support beams are over there. The thick ones, yeah, jesus.”

“Are you sure we’re supposed to put the bottom part in first?”

“Yes, you put one on the ground and then add the others than stand up vertically.”

“If we get this wrong...”

“We won’t get this wrong!” Stiles huffs, and paces across the room. “It’s Derek’s fault for wanting to fix the support beams all by himself and leaving us to put up the partition walls.”

“Well, he ordered the 2x4’s for us, at least, and we know we have the right amount for each room.”

“Unless he ordered wrong.”

“I didn’t order wrong,” Derek says, walking into the room to snag a bottle off the lawnchair they had dragged in and placed in the old living room.

“Then the framework will go up nicely.”

“Counting on it.”

“Where’s Isaac?”

“Running out to get lunch.”

“Perfect!” Stiles sighs, smiling happily. “Break time then!”

“Ah, no, break time when the food actually gets here,” Derek says, shoving his shoulder to prompt him back into action.

“It’s not like you’re doing any of the heavy lifting. You just have to tell me where to put what,” says Scott, laughing lightly.

Stiles squawks and they continue back and forth until Isaac arrives.

Two and a half feet is, relatively, the space between three 2x4’s lining the walls. 

* * *

 Two and a half feet is roughly the width of a shopping cart. Like the one in between Stiles and Derek’s scowling face.

“I cannot believe you don’t have a toolbox.”

“I have a toolbox, I just want to leave it at the loft.”

“So you’re lazy.”

“Stiles.”

“Just speaking the truth,” he says, raising his hands in surrender.

“You should trying speaking the silence.”

“That makes no sense, dude.”

“Just think about it.”

Stiles, however, is already off on another tangent. “Oh wow, look at these. They have like, every screw driver size known to man.” He prods at the tools hanging innocently, chuckling at the shapes of the handles when one looks exceptionally dirty. Derek doesn’t seem to notice.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re buying me an ice cream cone.”

“Keep repeating it and I won’t.”

“Nuh-uh, can’t take back the offer of a delicious dairy treat!”

Derek rolls his eyes, “then hurry up and order before all their ice cream melts.”

“Vanilla,” Stiles says, but has no real idea why. He usually likes chocolate best.

Derek sits backward at the picnic table, choosing the face outward and lean back against the table instead of sitting correctly. Stiles is about to sass him for when he notices Derek is actually, you know, licking his ice cream.

Nope, ain’t gonna bother.

Stiles sits next to him, carefully half away across the bench. Two and a half feet. Most of his ice cream ends on his fingers because he’s so frickin distracted.

* * *

“You’re proud of yourself, I can tell. You’re so happy I feel nauseous.”

Stiles stands at the edge of the driveway, looking up at the new roof on the Hale house.

Derek stands beside him, arms crossed, two and a half feet away. His cheeks will be hurting later with how much he’s smiling now compared to his usual glower. Stiles has no idea how to deal with that realization.

“My mom would have liked this,” Derek says, and for once his voice does not lower when speaking of his family.

“Yeah... she would have been... proud of you for trying... this... I think...”

Stiles doesn’t notice Derek turning his head to look at him, doesn’t notice the vulnerability in his eyes.

“Thanks... for helping,” Derek says, and Stiles knows how difficult it must be for him to say.

“Hey, you’re paying me, right? I couldn’t just quit when the money was so good.”

“Still have a bit to do.”

“If by ‘a bit’ you mean the whole interior, than you’re right!” Stiles chuckles, rubbing his hands to try and soothe the aches there. He’s no good with a hammer, it seems.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Stiles says, giving a wink before turning back to his Jeep. He’s halfway home before he realizes what he’s done, how he acted.

* * *

“How’s Cora doing?” Stiles asks.

As if he doesn’t text the girl more than her brother probably does. But he asks anyway.

“She’s planning on being back in California by the end of the week,” Derek says, obviously trying to stamp down his excitement.

“Do you want to have the house finished?”

“That’d be impossible.”

“Didn’t ask if you could do it, just if you wanted to.”

Derek pauses, his hands wringing the rag he’s holding. “Yeah... I want it to livable again...”

“Want me to pull a few strings?”

“Stiles, that’s not necessary-”

“Derek, if you promise to provide food, I can think of a dozen people who will come, pack or not.”

“I don’t want a lot of people here.”

“I understand,” Stiles says, but he’s already whipping out his phone. “But I miss her too, and I think she’d love if there was actually stained floorboards in the house instead of plywood.”

* * *

 “Stiles, we need more burgers!” Melissa calls from backyard, near the grill.

He grins and sings, “gotcha covered, Mama McCall!” as he dances to the cooler still resting in the back of his Jeep and hauls it through the house. Just as predicted, there are now hardwood floors laid down.

Upstairs, he can hear them finishing laying the floor in the bedroom as well. After that, they would paint the walls and finish installing the bathroom and kitchen fixtures.

But first, lunch needs to be prepared. Stiles makes a mean cheeseburger, if he did say so himself, so he assigned himself to the lunch detail along with Allison and Melissa McCall.

“Alli, could you make sure there is enough room at the tables for everyone? Ethan and Aiden showed up late so I think we might be cutting it close.”

Allison perks up. “Of course!” She dashes away, leaving Stiles and Scott’s mom working in front of the grill.

“Aren’t you glad you aren't the one paying the food bill?" He jokes, taking over the burger station for her as she moves to start setting out the food and soda.

She smiles gently at him, "incredibly relieved, actually. I think this is good for them, too."

"Yeah, it isn't good for them to be so apart all the time."

"It's nice of you to help him out like this."

"Well, he does pay me so," Stiles says, laughing as he lays the first set of burgers on the grill, then lays more on the second shelf. They'd need a lot of meat to keep all the werewolves happy, after all.

Melissa shakes her head, as if in disbelief, but Stiles doesn't notice. Instead, he looks over his shoulder to see the Pack storming down the stairs to wash up with the hose out front. They won't be allowed to eat otherwise. He catches Derek's eye and smiles purposefully, earning a satisfied smile in return.

Two and a half feet between the burgers and the potato salad, even if he doesn't measure. It seems closer.

* * *

 Cora is welcomed home in a flurry of limbs and milkshakes and confetti and beer and Stiles is caught up in it until he thinks he sees the sun coming up and he’s not in bed yet. He politely --drunkenly-- asks Derek if he can crash on the man’s couch. Derek nods his consent but Stiles isn’t standing steady enough to see it.

Derek guides him to the couch, listens to him mumble about how good the house turned out and how happy Cora seems with it. They would start painting the bedroom walls in the next few days, once things settled down again.

“Hey, heyyyyy, Derk, duude, can I piiiiick the color of my bedroom? That- that” he has to pause to remember where he is, having not adjusted as well to beer as he thought he would. “That would be aweshum.”

“Of course, Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles will adamantly refuse the allegations that say he squealed in delight at the positive response.

“Dude, dude, summer is almost over, what err we gun do?” Stiles says, eyes half lidded, as he refuses to let go of Derek’s shirt.

“I don’t know, Stiles,” Derek says, carefully prying Stiles’ hand away.

There is approximately two and a half feet between Derek’s lips and Stiles’ own. It seems like a dreadfully long distance, and Stiles tells him so.

Derek tells him to go to sleep.

* * *

 Stiles ends up painting his room a dark orange that goes perfectly with the dark hardwood floors and the accent of white. Don’t ask how Stiles knows it looks so damn good, he just does.

Derek only snorts at the choice and shakes his head before leaving Stiles to it. Apparently painting is not Derek’s thing, far too messy, but that’s okay, because he surprises Stiles with tuna sandwiches for lunch, with dill pickles and chips on the side. Stiles wants to marry his plate.

Derek has used most of his insurance claim to pay off the house renovations and funeral costs, and of course all those hospital bills for Uncle Peter --who’s doing better, by the way!-- but he’s got a bit more in reserve and his trust fund is untouched, as is Laura’s, which he’s splitting with Cora. Apparently when his dad had once said the Hales were the most prominent family in Beacon Hills, he meant it. Like, Derek grew up with more money than Jackson.

“No wonder you used to be douche,” Stiles says idly, when the topic comes up in conversation. They are currently avoiding the whole “Stiles is borrowing Derek’s clothes” situation.

Derek snorts into his own sandwich. “Money does not ruin people.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No. People ruin people.”

Stiles chews silently, out of character for him. “Have you ever considered taking college classes? That money will run out eventually, may as well put it towards something that might help you out, make you happy.”

Derek gives him a considering look, then nods slowly. 

* * *

 “Holy frick, dude, you actually did it.”

“I did,” Derek says, and it’s clear he’s somewhat exasperated.

“Architecture suits you. Less heavy lifting than construction.”

“I worked construction while we lived in New York,” Derek says, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world for him to talk about now.

“Did you now?”

“Mhm.”

“Pics or it didn’t happen,” Stiles says, baiting him. But really, who wouldn’t want to see Derek in a hardhat?

Derek flips out his phone, clicking a few times before flashing Stiles the screen. Stiles makes a strange, garbled noise in the back of his throat, clutching the phone desperately.

“Fuck, that’s hot.”

Derek snorts.

* * *

 “You didn’t apply?”

“No, no, I did! I just didn’t apply anywhere too far away, not until I know what I want to do.”

“So you’re commuting?”

“Yeah, basically. Scott’s going to the community college a few towns over so I figured driving 30 minutes north three times a week would be that bad...”

Derek nods after a moment of considering it. They’re both in the house kitchen, with Stiles sitting on a stool and Derek standing over the stove. Dinner is sizzling in the pan.

“So...” Derek starts, several minutes after Stiles thought the conversation had trailed away.

“So..?”

“You’ll be kind of busy...”

“Three days a week, man, and you’ll have your own classes to attend, online or not. You won’t miss me, promise.”

“What does your Dad think of it?”

“He’s happy I’m doing something with my life.”

Derek goes quiet again, but smiles when Stiles asks to stay the night. 

* * *

 There is exactly two and a half feet between Stiles and Derek, and in that space, Stiles is acutely aware that he should have put pants on before heading towards Derek’s upstairs bathroom. Somewhere down the hall, he can hear Scott snoring softly, undoubtedly curled up with Isaac under the covers.

But he’s frozen in the doorway before Derek is just as frozen, toothbrush in his mouth and bedhead too adorable to be legal, staring at him through the mirror in front of them.

They are both frozen because, despite going through the same morning routine as the rest of the past few weeks, there is a distinct difference between Stiles giving a snarky “Morning, Sleeping Beauty” to a yawning Derek, and placing a kiss on his cheek before saying “Good morning, sunshine.”

And let Stiles assure you, it is not the change in words that has them frozen in place.

And let’s just ignore the fact that it took them both a second or two to realize what had actually just happened. And also ignore the whole... stubble thing, Derek has going on.

“Oh my god!” Stiles cries, then hightails it back to his bedroom. His slamming door rouses a sleepy Scott, but he hears Derek send the disgruntled teenage Alpha back to bed. 

* * *

 “Stiles,” Derek says, right as he’s halfway out the door. It’s the first time in nearly a week that Stiles has spent any time at the Hale house with the rest of the pack, mostly to avoid the awkward.

He pauses in the doorway, cringing to himself before turning around. Derek is standing there, two and a half feet away, maybe a few feet more, hands deathly still at his sides and head ducked.

“Drive safe,” Derek says, eyes on the floor.

Stiles heart thumps, but Derek is disappearing back up the stairs before he can say anything in return.

* * *

 The first time another pack contacts them to set up a meeting, Stiles braces for the worst, After all, with their track record, who knows why the other pack wants to come for a visit. But when the two cars arrive and Beta’s pile out, smiling wide and staring all around with curious eyes, Stiles steps forward invites them right in.

Derek is still stressing out, right up until the other Alpha suggests an alliance between the two packs. They are from northern California, built up around a large family just like the Hales once were, but not as long-running. Most of the Beta’s are new, and they get along swimmingly with Scott’s own.

Stiles is all smiles and laughter and welcomes, and Derek seems to relax after a day or two. Stiles touches his shoulder whenever he can, just to keep the wolf at ease. This buds into touching the side of Derek’s neck, and even playing with his hair.

When both packs sit down to talk negotiations, Stiles hovers at Derek’s shoulder. He’s human, nothing more, nothing less, but the other Alpha makes no comment.

As the other pack piles back into their cars, it is Derek’s turn to hover behind Stiles.

* * *

 

Scott initiates a Pack Night, which really means they all romp around the Preserve until the sun goes down and then stumble in for supper and a movie or two before bed. Stiles doesn’t even try to participate in the physical games, but he does make dinner and make sure there’s enough for all of them. Scott growls his approval as he tears into his steak, Isaac mewling next to him.

Touch has become second nature to Stiles, even without the werewolf gene. He is used to touching and being touched after nearly three years of living with and around them all. Isaac likes when Stiles musses up his hair, Scott enjoy hugs most of all, Cora and he have built up an exceptional buddy-system for half hugs and cheek kisses, and Derek... well Derek is special.

There is no space between them on the couch, so Stiles is content to curl himself up in Derek’s lap for the duration of the movie. He may or may not have dozed off a few times, sinking in and out of reality while waiting for the movie to end.

Derek’s arms end up around his back and over his legs, one hand on his knee and the other on his hip. Stiles doesn’t care, snuggling further into the warmth.

When he wakes up the final time, the tv is off and the room is empty except for Derek and he on the couch together. Derek is curled over him, as if the shield him from bad weather, which can’t be good for the poor guy’s back, super healing or no.

Stiles wriggles a bit, positioning himself better after pushing himself up the correct distance. He opens his mouth and licks a long stripe up Derek’s neck, catching the hinge of his jaw and all the stubble that is Stiles’ living wet dream.

Derek jerks awake, but Stiles is already mouthing at his neck some more. A confused whine escapes the wolf’s throat before Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders and presses his lips closer. “Carry me to bed already.”

Two and a half feet is nonexistent, except when Derek holds himself up at arms length above him and stares, as if entranced with the beauty beneath him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Un-Beta'd, all mistakes are the result of late night writing XD


End file.
